Tag: loss

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Call the (Death) Midwife!

Man facing away, talking on cell phone

I had a calculus teacher regularly proclaim there were three unavoidable things in life: Pythagorean theorem, taxes and death. Interestingly, he always listed them in the opposite order, probably for math related dramatic emphasis. 

If Mr G was right, and let’s face it, evidence including property tax bills, my child’s grade 10 math homework and the local newspaper obituary section all support this assessment, how do we shift how we approach death and dying? How do we change the narrative and make preparing for death part of living? What hope do we have in a society where the financial gains of corporations and the “we can cure-treat-solve everything if you fight hard enough” mentality are engrained and accepted throughout society?

To die is perceived as “losing” the fight. To have a patient die suggests a doctor has “failed” to save them. No doctor wants to be thought of as a “loser” and certainly no doctor and likely no patient wants to fail. 

So how then do we approach death in a healthy wholesome heart-centered way?

Enter the death doula. 

Just as a birth and pregnancy midwife helps transition a state of life, so too does a death doula. Other titles include End of Life Doula, End of Life Consultant, and Death Midwife all of which are premised on the idea and privilege of companioning individuals through their end of life journey, the transition from one state of being into another. 

We are called into this work. It is a sacred time and sacred space. It can be heart wrenching and beautiful and heart-wrenchingly beautiful. 

From the point of terminal diagnosis or advanced age, through death, the grief journey beyond and every possible step in between, death doulas walk alongside individuals and their caregivers with a desire to create and hold this sacred space. Space where it is safe to talk about death and dying. Space where all emotions and experiences are welcomed and encouraged. Space where death is part of life not a separate step to be feared, maligned or avoided. 

It can be space where regrets and reconciliation are explored, where plans are made for ritual, legacy and celebration and where the life lived is remembered and life lost is lamented. 

In all of these, the death doula is companion, witness, advocate and presence.

We are all going to die. Our loved ones are all going to die. The key question is, how do we want the experience of death to unfold?

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The World Forever Changed

large tree, boom truck, workers, wood chipper on a blue sky day

This happened today. This huge beautiful tree has been growing here from long before we could see it from our living room window. It should have been able to grow for a century more but for the emerald ash borer.

The process of portioning, removing and mulching the branches with the shuffling of trucks, loaders and workers was like watching a choreographed dance. The soundtrack complete with layers of diesel engines, industrial chippers and two stroke engines.

The smell of sawdust usually activates a sense of comfort and familiarity from childhood winters in the bush harvesting for wood fired heat. The crunch of snow under foot, the crash of felled trees, the chattering of kids and dads at work and the feel of damp, snow crusted mittens. And always that scent of wood mixed with the fuel-oil exhaust of chainsaws.

Somehow this is different. While many would shrug and say “It’s a tree. Trees die.” My aching heart knows the truth as do the tears rising just under the surface. There is grief in this loss. Grief over a tangible loss of a living thing. Grief over intangible losses of all the things this particular living thing represents. Grief over the complex layers of things that are only tangentially related. 

Things like climate change, loss of habitat, loss of shade and a primary navigation landmark. Things like the globalization of commerce directly responsible for the arrival of the emerald ash borer and the swath of arboreal decay in its wake. The loss of comfort and a familiar view out the window every morning and evening, birds flitting around the branches, nesting in the nooks, perching on the tips. 

There is a small glitter in this with a pile of mulch and stack of lumber the crew generously delivered to our back yard, some meaning from the death. But they’ll need to be held in a balance for a time while we adjust to the new view and all it represents.

This is what death is like. The world – my world – is forever changed.

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Lean Into It

There it is again. That ache. The pain. The reminder of loss, of things left behind. Of people, lives, relationships, goals, passions and dreams altered. Separated. Not because of physical loss but spiritual, emotional. One act of obedience that changes the path and leaves a portion of your heart on the side of the road.

It’s a pain that eventually fades. Changes. Mutates. Moves from grief to sorrow. The stabbing lessens to a dull ache, fades to a tender spot. The tender spot the enemy loves to poke with impeccable timing. Those moments when joy starts to shine through, when purpose is forming like an ethereal dream, that’s when he jabs his boney finger right into the most delicate space. That tender spot that awakens the sorrow, stirs the tears and squeezes the heart.

The poke, the pressure, that ache that rises and casts a grey pallor over everything, creating doubt shadows where each decision, each moment, comes with a backpack full of questions, doubts and second guesses.

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Grief is not linear

There is no straight line from loss to what we’ll call recovery. I’d like to say “all my life I thought…” but truth is, I never even thought about grief, about loss, about what it means for everyday, what that loss does to the light, to time, to joy, to the very act of breathing, getting up in the morning, going to bed at night, how things look, feel, sound, taste.

While I have lost family members, it never occurred to me that grief as a journey isn’t a straight line. The direct loss wasn’t mine. My heart ached for the spouses left behind. Still aches for them. But it wasn’t until an entirely different circumstance introduced me to grief directly that I began to see it for what it is.

Grief stripped me of all that I thought I knew. It ripped me to the core of my being. It flipped upside down everything I thought I knew about life and loss, living and dying.

In my current journey of loss, the most recent lesson is that it is not linear. One doesn’t simply and gradually “get over it” like walking up a gradual incline. There are days when getting out of bed is an achievement. When emptying the dishwasher counts as a productive day. And while I can look back on the months between impact and today and see how things have gotten less painful, how things have changed and, for lack of better words, gotten better, I then had an experience that put me so far back on the path to healed that I’m not sure the end exists. The proverbial “two steps forward three steps back”.

In this particular case, words spoken in support and hope created turmoil. They were intended to heal, to soften a moment of history yet had the unintended result of ripping open a carefully stitched wound. To be clear, I do not hold the source responsible for the outcome. My reaction is on me alone and I hold no malice, anger or disappointment.

The results though tell the state of my heart and stage of my journey. The imagery that comes to mind is that I had just climbed out of a deep chasm. Rocky walls, damp, rough, the only way out going up, through the pain. And, standing on the edge, finally out of the depths and face turned to the light and warmth, to then have words blindside me back over the edge back into the hole like a wrecking ball into the side of a building.

My choice, once again, to remain in the pit or work, inch by inch, memory by memory, hurt by hurt back up the edge. Jesus on belay, me searching for toe holds through the threat of tears.

Grief doesn’t travel a straight line. It weaves and ducks, it leads then follows, strangles then caresses. It sneaks up like a storm on a sunny day. The tiniest scent, a flash of memory, a habitual motion, phrase or task brings a sweeping wave wiping out all forward progress, sets back days, weeks, miles, back to the bottom of the pit.